You Bet!
by Urchin of the Riding Stars
Summary: After one particularly disastrous World Meeting, England loses it and yells at America, insisting that he can't take anything seriously to save his life. America takes this as a personal challenge. Eventual UsUk.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey folks. I realize this story might be a little ridiculous (and a little strange; I've never really written pure UsUk before), but I hope it puts a smile on your face nevertheless. **

**Please read, review, and enjoy!**

~*oOo*~

* * *

**_"America, you slow, brainless, conniving jackass, I am going to throttle you!"_**

The day hadn't gone so well for England.

It was bad enough that he'd had to fly into the wretched city of Boston—that place was full of memories he'd much rather forget—but his plane had been delayed for over three hours. Weren't countries supposed to receive better treatment than this? Hell, the Queen had her own _bloody airplane_ while the personification of her country had been forced to wait in a long line full of irritated passengers. Somewhere a baby bawled its little lungs out, and eventually England's head began to throb with a painful migraine.

He'd searched in his pocket for an aspirin, anything, but he'd only found an empty bottle. Christ, he'd forgotten he'd used those last three after a particularly exhausting conversation with America over the phone a day or so ago.

Sweaty, sick, and agitated, he'd sat down, only to realize that he was starving. But the terminals at the airport selling overpriced and greasy food (Lord knew his cuisine was much better) were packed full of noisy people, and England's head was still stinging. He tried to get a packet of crisps from the vending machine, but the stupid thing had gotten caught in the wire, and no amount of banging on the glass was going to shake it free.

England had had to make a sleuth of phone calls to some very annoyed people who seemed to assume that the delay was somehow his fault. His prime minster sternly reminded him of the piles of paperwork waiting for him back home, and the queen told him he was in for a good talking-to. The coordinators of the World Conference reluctantly told him that they could postpone for a few hours, but the other nations were very likely going to be furious about the whole thing, considering how difficult traveling was. Everyone came from a different time zone, so scheduling out the meetings was very often something of a headache.

_They thought THEY had a headache…._

By the time England boarded his flight (sandwiched between two sweaty, uncouth rednecks who kept hurling loud insults at each other), his head hurt so badly he was seeing stars. Then, when he'd arrived in a rainy Boston, a few tourists had recognized him and elected to give him the finger as he tried to wave down a taxicab, only to get sloshed with dirty water after a bus roared past.

Needless to say, England was in a dark mood by the time he finally reached the hotel where they were holding the conference. He wished the bowing footman had said something nasty to him so that he would have an excuse to vent his anger, snapped at the receptionist who didn't know which ballroom was reserved for the meeting and had to check the listing. By the time England had finally trudged into the room and sank into his chair, he had been convinced that things couldn't possibly be worse.

And then IT had happened. Supper time had come at last, and America initiated what would forever be known in the record books as the Boston Cream Pie Massacre. By the time a white flag was raised by both sides, the once finely-polished room was carpeted in crust, splattered with whipped cream and custard, and more than a few molars dislodged by countries who had admittedly gotten a little too enthusiastic about the entire thing.

The custodial workers of the Riverview Hotel certainly had their work cut out for them today; cleaning costs were probably going to rise above one thousand dollars. America had assured the bedraggled nations stumbling out of the conference room that he would cover the damage charges, as well as the many cleaner costs, but Arthur had remained behind with his former colony, face set with fury.

America was smiling nervously at him, trying to defuse the situation with his normal charm, but it appeared even the halfwit knew that wasn't going to buy him out of this mess. England glowered at him, his face splattered with sweet, chest huffing and puffing rapidly after his angry shout.

"I just wanted to defuse some tension between Israel and Palestine," protested Alfred, swallowing as England narrowed his sharp green eyes dangerously. "All that talk of warfare and doomsday was really getting everyone down and mad. It's not like we get anything DONE at these things anyway, so I decided to call in catering and cheer them up by treating them to a hometown favorite."

_"By beaning a pie directly at Israel's face?"_

"Hey, he knows I support him!" Alfred exclaimed. "I was just trying to hand it to him was all. His face got in the way."

Aghast, England simply stared at him, too struck dumb with disgust to say anything for a moment. But his hot temper began to boil underneath his skin, whistling in his mind like a bubbling teapot. He stuttered inarticulately for a moment before his mouth and his mind finally reconnected.

"_His face got in the way?_ By George, you didn't even hit the poor bloke! You hit BLOODY CUBA!"

America held his hands up in surrender.

"Didn't mean to!" America pleaded. "Besides, it wasn't like he didn't retaliate immediately with unnecessary aggression. He grabbed a pie and socked Canada upside the head with it. Considering the fact that sucker was meant for ME, I oughta consider that an act of war."

**"Enough!"** England insisted, his voice growing louder and angrier by the second. "I have HAD it with you, you little brat! What is it about you and ruining everything you touch, every chance you have to redeem yourself?"

Alfred just stared at him blankly, reluctantly crossing the room as his hand timidly wandered to his former colonizer's arm. His voice was much hoarser than normal when he shakily responded, "Iggy, just…just calm down, I'm really sorry—"

"You're SUCH a child!" exclaimed England in disgust, throwing off Alfred's arm as if it were a dead rodent. "And stop calling me that, you idiot, I never once gave you permission to call me that! **So knock it off**!"

He strode for the door, turning around only once, his caterpillar brows furrowed. Alfred stared at him like a lost child in the piles of whipped cream that still lay around the

"Why don't you do us all a favor and _grow up_ for once in your rotten life, or perhaps you should just consider throwing yourself off a building now and be done with it. I assure, none of us would be very sorry. I least of all."

America's mouth dropped and his eyes seemed overbright.

And with that, England stormed out, leaving America alone in the room. The country did not pursue him.

* * *

That night, after England had a hot shower and meal, he hired a limo to drive him to the airport—he couldn't possibly stay too soon—and he looked out the window at the lit streetlamps, which glowed in the darkness like little matchsticks.

He remembered when they had been lanterns, few and far between, and England had had to assure his scared little protégé that yes, he knew the road well enough even in the darkness, and that ghosts wouldn't come out at them. Even then he had known that America's intense fear of ghosts was his fault; he had told the child countless frightening bedtime stories. Blast it all, he hadn't known how to raise a child! No one had taught him how!

England wearily pressed his head against the leather seats and closed his eyes. The pain from his temples had by now moved down into his stomach.

Good God, what an absolutely ridiculous day. _'Throw yourself off a building….'_ He shook his head like a dog trying to rid itself of water. That really had been rather harsh, even for England. His hand wandered over to his pocket, hovering over his phone, but the man withdrew it, wearily groaning. He hated the fact that he'd probably made the young country very upset, but he hated the idea of having to apologize to him more.

Guilt rose into his throat in the form of a lump, but England turned his gaze to the airport outside, which had just started to appear on the horizon, a beacon of hope.

Knowing America, he'd probably already forgotten about the entire thing. The boy had the attention span of a goldfish and was probably running around some arcade with his foul-mouthed little alien friend. England rolled his eyes. There was no need for him to say anything or provoke another argument.

The ex-empire would simply have to leave it be for awhile and everything would be well again, as if the whole spectacle had never happened.

He grudgingly had to admit that it HAD been funny in its own way, though it had been a shameful waste of custard.

* * *

~*oOo*~

Unfortunately, America was hosting the next conference as well. At least it was in New York this time, rather than in that hateful little city.

England nervously straightened his tie before heading onto the escalator, glancing out at the window where the Twin Towers had once stood. It had been weeks now since he and America had spoken, one of the longest spans they'd ever gone without talking. He'd waited for America to harangue him with annoying emails and phone messages begging England to show up in costume to some movie premiere, but no such message ever came.

For a few days, it had been rather peaceful. Then, it had just gotten…_annoying_, somehow. Arthur found himself glancing at the phone every now and again in his study, periodically checking his answering machine on his breaks. When he'd had a dream that America was calling him, he'd scrambled out of bed for the telephone, only to discover it was just a telemarketer. England sighed loudly as he walked off the escalator, looking for the signs to direct him to room 326, the conference room.

He'd hemmed and hawed for some weeks, dialed America's number halfway and then hung up. So maybe America was busy. It certainly didn't meant that he was upset with him. Gracious, America was too lazy to hold a grudge.

England felt a little better as he approached the door. Hopefully, the young nation wasn't serving soup, else he'd need a raincoat.

He smirked, entered—and walked right into a complete stranger. England hastily stepped back and tried to stammer out an apology, but his mind abruptly went blank and his eyes went on screen saver mode.

"Hello, England."

The elder country stared in incomprehension, reality slowly dawning on him. _Good Lord, it's him, it's actually him—_"A-America," he stammered, feeling his face burn from the inside out. "You….look….nice."

America really did look nice. He'd removed his brown leather bombing jacket in favor of a formal black suit coat, which looked very much like one of the many England had thrust on his colony in their early days. Cuff links shone at his wrists, and he wore a dark red tie, not at all like one of the cartoony ones America so often wore on the rare occasion he could be persuaded to _wear _a "noose," as he so eloquently called them. Even that ever-stubborn Nantucket had been neatly tucked into the crown of yellow hair, indistinguishable from the rest.

England's eyes couldn't help but wander down, down, down to Alfred's shoes, where his normal sneakers had been replaced by a pair of shining loafers. He swallowed heavily and returned a shaky smile to America, who was watching him carefully. "It's…it's quite a change. I must say I like it." _Why the rotten devil was it becoming so difficult to speak? _"Well done, you."

His former colony just considered him, a small, composed smile on his face. "Thank you. I appreciate that."

England opened his mouth, closed it, and just nodded, flushing painfully. America waited for a response, nodded politely when he saw that none was forthwith coming, and turned to greet Canada by his first name, an act which so moved the syrup-loving nation that he burst into tears.

The Brit tried to stammer out something else, but America had moved to the door to greet Mexico, who didn't look at all like she recognized him. England slowly settled into his seat—how, he'd never know, his legs were numb—and gawked at America.

He took the time to greet every nation who walked into the room with a handshake, even Cuba, who tried to strangle him, Russia, who looked very startled but accepted it gracefully, and Belarus, who tried to cut him. Most nations were astonished by this new, clean-shaven and crisply attired America. Others loved it.

"America, you look wonderful!" exclaimed France, ignoring America's outstretched hand and kissing him on both cheeks. England felt his own face burn and his fists clenched underneath the table, nails digging into his palms. France stepped back, eyeing America's fine attire appreciatively. "Well, it appears someone is finally taking fashion a bit more seriously…."

"Ralph Lauren," said America happily, adjusting his country's flag pin on his lapel. France beamed at him.

"Ah, but it is the responsibility of good-nations such as yourself (not quite so lovely as I am, but that's to be expected) to keep yourself in gorgeous attire! Still," he purred, his light blue eyes glittering with mischief, "I can't help but wonder how _sculpted_ that body must be without such things…."

America didn't squeak or squawk or bury a blushing face in his hands, much to England's surprise.

"Yes well, when I get a body like yours and lose the whole 'common decency' thing, you'll be the first to know," he said casually, shaking France's hand and heading to the podium. England watched as America carefully surveyed the room like a hawk, checking for any empty spaces. When he saw none, he smiled and cleared his throat, tapping the microphone rather than yelling into it, as wasn't his usual wont. The sound caught the attention of the murmuring nations, and they looked at the young man in surprise.

"I think it's about time we begin," America spoke, "And seeing as everyone's here and assembled, I would like to start matters off by welcoming you all to my home again and to the 89th World Conference." His voice was cool but welcoming, slow but to the point. "As you can see in front of you, there is a pamphlet of current issues that we'll be discussing. After doing a survey of previous meetings, I've arranged issues according to their relevance." England started as he realized that there was a neatly stapled paper book in front of him. He tentatively touched it with a fingernail, as if he were afraid it would explode. "All in favor of beginning this meeting?"

The countries just looked at each other, bemused, Arthur most of all, though his gaze was locked only on America. Hesitantly, a few hands rose into the hair, and dozens followed. America surveyed them all carefully, looking unusually smart and dapper behind his spectacles.

"All opposed?" he asked. No hands raised. America nodded approvingly.

"Good…good…now, number one, addressing the issue of pollutants…."

China immediately stood up, and England inwardly groaned. _Oh, Lord, here we go._

"Before anyone starts and it isn't like YOUR cities are anything to speak of—"

"No one's attacking you, China," said Alfred warily, as if he'd been expecting this. "Please sit down."

But the dark-haired nation rounded on him. "It is always ME you draw out first in stupid meetings, though you owe _me_ billions of dollars, which is becomingly increasingly unacceptable—"

"It is," said America gently. "Which is why you and I need to discuss the reparation payments after the meeting. It won't all come at once of course, but my government has agreed to dip into the treasury so that we can start sending you larger increments back each year. With interest, as we promised."

The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. China stared at America as if he'd seen a ghost.

"What?" he stammered, trying to regain his composure. "Well….well, yes. It's about time, aru!"

"This meeting isn't about playing the blame game, China. Please sit down and turn to page 8 so that we can go back to discussing Article One." England's eyes just about popped out of his head when China did just that.

_Boloucks, this can't be happening! The fairies have abducted Alfred!_

"As for your environmental standards, I think it's a good idea if we can all come up with some sort of universal ecological guidelines for the usage of fossil fuels and the disposal of hazardous waste products," said America quietly and England paled. "I realize it's going to be difficult, and considering my country uses a fourth of the world's resources, I think it's pretty safe to say we're in one hell of a mess here, folks. But we're levying more money to the research of finding alternative fuels so that we can gradually wean ourselves off pollutants that are steadily decreasing AND have a death grip on the economy."

He took a sip of water—_no ridiculously large Slurpee or sugary coffee covered in whipped cream_?—and began again.

"Germany, your country in a recent study was marked one of the cleanest industrial sites in the world," he remarked, and dozens of eyes drifted over to Ludwig, who by now had gone very red in his seat. England pinched himself. _America's asking for someone else's opinion?_ "Ecologically speaking, that's outstanding. Do you have the report we discussed earlier on how you manage that?"

"J-ja." He uncertainly stood up, and America respectfully headed to his own seat as Germany took the podium, gesturing to a few charts that he and America had prepared. England swallowed, his mouth as dry as sandpaper. _Collaboration. Cooperation_. _Paper clips on paper rather than being flung at you via slingshot._

England took a sip of water to steady his nerves, glancing at America watching Ludwig's presentation, his eyes filled with interest and concentration instead of looking to a game counsel hidden under the table.

The ex-empire blushed, coughed, and sputtered, and Scotland had to smack him on the back so that he didn't choke.

~*oOo*~

The meeting was, for the first time in what felt like years, quite productive. While the usual arguments broke out between the usual countries, America soothed them to the best of his ability and steadily guided them back to the manner at hand. When it was over, a surprising number of countries came forward to speak with America, many offering him congratulations and more wanting to discuss projects he had proposed during the meeting. England skulked in the background, not used to being in a crowd of people wanting to chat with the United States and admittedly not liking it much.

When at last South Africa left and the two were alone in the room, England hesitantly stepped forward as America began to pack his briefcase. Now England was to uncertain where to look and he felt a queer trembling in the pit of his stomach.

He was _nervous._

"Uh, America," he began, smiling awkwardly when America's gaze fell on him again. His hand wandered over to his cravat, loosening it ever so slightly. It was getting uncomfortably warm in here. "About…about uh, last meeting…" If…whatever_ it_ was….warmed him throughout the meeting, now he was just hot with shame. "Well, you certainly proved me wrong. I'm….I'm sorry."

America said nothing for a moment. Then, he went back to sliding in files.

"It was a long time in coming," said America shortly as finished sorting his papers, neatly clicking the briefcase shut. "My boss gave me a good talking to after the last World Conference; he agreed with what you had to say and more." His tone was mild, but England's heart still ached. "Just a good wake-up call. It's the 21st century, for god's sake. I can't afford to screw things up any more than I already have."

England grinned sheepishly, feeling heat start to bloom in his face again. "Yes, well….would you care to…to get some lunch?" An afternoon alone with America would be comforting; after awhile America would loosen up and tease him mercilessly. The idea was sobering, but at least it would assure him that all was as it always was.

America smiled but shook his head no. "No thanks. I had some coffee and a Danish for brunch, so I should be fine for awhile." America abstaining from food? AND eating brunch instead of breakfast and lunch? As well as knowing what brunch actually was? It was only after a good ten seconds had passed that England realized that his jaw had dropped again. He closed it, flushing furiously. "O-oh." Curse his infernal stammering! "Well…maybe tonight you'd like to take a walk or something? Before I head back to England?"

"I can't," said America apologetically, reaching for a stack of papers and rifling through them before tucking the parcel under his arm. "I've got another conference with my states concerning something I've been planning for awhile now. Well, it was nice seeing you again," he said politely, tipping his head ever so slightly before he headed for the door, leaving a stunned England in the glossy conference room, alone.

~*oOo*~

A week or so later, while England was sitting at home enjoying a cup of Earl Gray and a partially burnt muffin, he browsed through the morning paper, not really taking much of anything in. His glazed green eyes wandered up and down the print, and he was just about to fold the paper up and throw it away when a particular headline caught his eye:

_Russian-American Ties Taking An Upswing, Page 6_

England's brow furrowed, and he frowned, puzzled. He turned the pages until he came to a picture of America's boss, who was shaking hands with Russia's. But what truly captured his attention was how the presidents' respective countries were standing behind the two, mimicking their leaders, hands intertwined. America was grinning with no hint of outrage or suspicion in his eyes, and Russia was smiling absently, not murderously. England's eyes darted to their hands, which didn't seem involved in their usual dance of trying to break the other's fingers.

_The hell is this?_

He hurriedly read the article, his uncertain expression sinking deeper and deeper into a troubled scowl.

_'The United States has extended an international hand of friendship to its longtime rival and fellow superpower, the Federation of Russia. President _ and President _ met early yesterday morning to discuss a series of agreements concerning Georgia and the missile crisis in Europe…..'_

He scanned on, not really caring._ '….are looking increasingly optimistic, especially after the Americans were invited to march in Russia's Victory Day Parade two years prior, the first time the United States was ever allowed to walk alongside its allies in celebration of the end of the second great war. Alfred F. Jones, the personification of the United States, was reported to have pushed the treaties as matters of grave importance to President _, and requested to have a personal meeting with Ivan Braginski, which Secretary of Defense _ claims went rather well._

_"Shoot, he didn't threaten nuclear annihilation ONCE to Braginski,' a stunned _ murmurs in amazement. "Not ONCE did they talk about dismemberment or castration or doomsday. Actually pretty amazing, if you ask me. They seem to be quite friendly now."'_

England lowered the article, mind shot with disbelief.

_They can't be bloody serious. This is some April Fool's Day trick, to be sure. They'll run a recant tomorrow and explain the whole thing is a joke._

But without really thinking about it, his hand flew into his pocket and yanked out his cell phone. He immediately speed-dialed the country, tapping his foot angrily on the kitchen floor when it rang again and again and again. _"Come on,"_ he growled. "Pick up."

"Hello?" he heard America ask, none of his normal _"Hey, it's me, America, international superstar and savior of hot babes!" _nonsense. "Alfred F. Jones speaking."

Color rushed to England's face again, and his fingertips trembled around his cell, as electricity was flowing from the device to his hand.

"Uh, hello," England coughed. This felt very peculiar, as if he were talking to a stranger. "It's me, you twat."

America didn't retaliate with an insult of his own, or even whine. "Might I ask what is the nature of your call, sir?" he asked calmly.

England's green eyes just about popped out of his head. Good God, that was poised and polite, but it was also so….distant, formal. Almost cold. He supposed that it was a definite improvement over America's normal conceited carelessness, but it felt incredibly…awkward.

While England wracked his brains and tried to stammer out a response, America reminded him curtly, "I'm on the clock, England." The older nation immediately scowled. How dare the brat treat him like some gawping moron! He flailed for a second before quickly recovering.

"I heard you and Russia are working on…on improving foreign relations. That's…that's very good," he finished lamely. He wishes he could see America's expression.

A pause. "Defusing a schism like the Cold War is going to take a long time," said America mildly, and England very nearly melted upon hearing his former colony using such _big words_, as America would so elegantly put it prior to his great change. _Defusing! Schism!_ "Though it's officially died down, we still have our hackles raised behind the scenes….I don't know if we'll ever exactly see eye to eye, considering Russia and I are the antithesis of each other…." **Oh God, Oh God,** _Antithesis. _He wished America were there so that he could croon words like that all day long. He was going to get the boy a Webster's Dictionary for Christmas. "But we've both agreed to do our best. My boss wants Russia and I to get together for a few more press events so that the public can see we're trying to get along now. Thankfully Ivan's boss seems to think it's a good idea too, so I'm pretty sure we're penciled in next week to play tennis together."

England felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

"You're calling him Ivan now?" asked the ex-empire, wincing at how utterly _puny_ his voice sounded. After inwardly smacking himself, he gruffly cleared his throat and assumed an indifferent air. "That's a…a rather big step."

If England didn't know better, he'd say he could almost _hear _Alfred shrug. "He's not so bad, once you get to talk with him. It was actually kind of nice; we have a lot more in common than I ever thought we would. He invited me to attend the ballet with him in December—I'm looking forward to it."

"I see." The room was becoming almost unbearablywarm, though the strange, pleasantly painful vibrations he had been feeling throughout his body increased. But not in a good fashion. The fire inside of him towered, licked at his insides, scalding him with a blistering sense of….

_Jealousy? _England blinked, slightly lost.

Why the _hell_ should he have to feel jealous about _anything_? He only saw the oaf every couple of weeks. Well, not so often now, but that certainly wasn't abnormal! England coughed.

"I…I was wondering, A-Alfred," He was a man, a very well-polished, learned country at that! "If perhaps you happened to have…to have a free day, we could maybe…play croquet…or one of those video games you like so much."

Silence. Even with the absence of a dial tone, England was almost positive America had hung up. Then, the younger nation said gently, "That's nice of you to offer, but it's tax season and I have a lot of work to do right now." America's voice was soft and collected, and didn't betray a hint of regret.

"I don't have time to play games, England. And I'm sure neither do you."

"Apparently you have time to play games with _Russia," _England growled, gripping the phone so tightly he could hear the plastic cracking underneath his hand.

"That's improving international relations," the young nation said indifferently. "Maybe some other time…thank you for directing your call to the United States, we hope you have a very pleasant day."

"Wai—" But before England could continue, Americahad hung up, and now England was listening to a dial tone, his cornflakes overturned his lap, milk dripping onto the floor. He didn't notice.

* * *

England decided to work from home that day, but his mind was a sieve._ America couldn't make time for him?_ But he'd _always, always_ made time for England, for Arthur, regardless how bad a state of he himself was in. When Princess Diana had died, America had run out of a meeting with his irate boss and immediately hopped a plane to England's home. When the Twin Towers had crumbled, America had been the one doing the comforting—to England, though he was the one with two bloody gashes on his neck. Hell, he'd even attended the Queen's diamond jubilee in a gesture of goodwill, though Elizabeth certainly wasn't happy about the confetti cannon.

England bit the inside of his mouth as he flipped through old documents, impatiently signing a good number of petitions without considering them closely. His normally neat penmanship was shaky today; his hand kept shaking as the nation continued to fume. He'd called America back, intending to give the nation a piece of his mind, but a young woman had answered his calls, claiming to be America's secretary.

The idea was mind blowing. When America _really _wanted work done, he typically did it himself. Just how much of a workload was he taking on?

England crossed a t with perhaps a bit more force than necessary; he left a hole in the paper.

America might have made an effort to clean up his act, but inwardly, he hadn't changed one whit. A childish attempt to get back at England, despite the fact that the nation had already apologized! He was still a child dressed up in a suit three sizes too large for him. Eventually he'd get bored and move back to his boyish antics.

_But this is a good thing,_ his mind argued. _Haven't you wanted America to clean up his act for years? Like it or not, he's the leader of the bloody free world. It's a very good thing he's investing more time and effort in his own government!_

His green eyes flickered back to the article on his desk, with America and Russia standing side by side, looking the best of chums. England seized it, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into a wastebasket.

Then, he thought for a moment. Got up from his desk and chair, scooped up the wrinkled newspaper, and carefully unsmoothed it again. Picked up a pen, and drew a colossal mustache and goatee on Ivan's smiling face. As if in an afterthought, he blacked out several of Russia's teeth, too.

~*oOo*~

Weeks went by. Though England now made it a point to call America at least three times a week, he never got a response. His secretary kept claiming that the nation was out at a meeting or swamped at work, and regardless of how irked England got at the woman or how many threatening and insulting messages England left, America did not respond.

His spirits began to fall, and England's prime minister had taken to asking if England was quite alright every time the two met, much to the nation's annoyance. When the time came to leave for the next G-8 Conference (this time in Berlin), England hadn't at all bothered to painstakingly pack his case as he normally did. He simply shoved a few random handfuls of clothing he'd scooped from his drawers before hurrying off to the airport, not even bothering to brush his hair beforehand.

This nonsense had to be settled. Today. If America wouldn't listen to him, he'd make him listen.

When Arthur headed down to the meeting room, he heard America's voice and hastened down the hallway, only to come to an abrupt halt when he turned the corner and saw Russia and America deep in conversation. He cautiously drew back, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

"—is good," said Russia cheerfully, his violet eyes as bright as a child's. "Am very excited for it." America smiled warmly, and while it wasn't his normal quirky, overconfident heroic grin, it still made England's heart melt because it was so _sincere _and _kind_.

When was the last time America had looked at him in such a fashion? For God's sake, did America think that professionalism meant heartlessness? Arthur's green eyes began to frost over.

Once upon a time, that smile had only been reserved to a very select few, including _himself_. He remembered how disappointed he'd felt when he'd discovered that Canada was privy to it, too. Then it had been everyone's. The world's.

But America was still talking, and England strained his ears to listen:

"I'm really glad you're coming. The paparazzi won't even know we're there, and if we wear hats and shades, no one should even know that it's us. All the same, I'll tell the officials to increase security."

"Am sure that will not be problem," said Russia gently. "Though I appreciate thought. Am looking forward to all the rides! I do not know which one I will try first."

England raised one of his thick eyebrows, frowning in confusion. What were the two doing, planning an excursion? America grinned.

"Disney wouldn't be the same without you. It's been awhile since I've went, so I'm glad I have an excuse to go. Thankfully I have V.I.P passes, so I can show you everything AND get us to the front of the lines. Which get pretty amazingly long, if you don't mind me saying so."

Disney World? England went cold. That was America's pride and joy—hell, the Grand Canyon probably didn't mean quite so much to Alfred as that vomit and cotton candy covered tourist trap!

As Russia wandered off, America made to follow him, but England decided that enough was enough. He stepped out of his hiding place, trying to keep his gaze impassive instead of murderously jealous.

"Hello, America."

America blinked and looked away.

"Oh. Hello, En—"

"I couldn't help but overhear your plans with Russia," England interrupted dryly, glaring at his old protégé. "Are you really taking him to your favorite theme park?"

Before he could stop the flow of insanity in his head, he heard himself ask:

"Why didn't you ask me to come, too?"

America gave him a bewildered look.

"But you don't like Disney World," said Alfred slowly, as if explaining something perfectly rational to an irate two year old. "You don't even like Euro Disney. Russia's boss wanted to visit Disney a couple of years ago and we turned him down, so I thought it would be nice if—"

"Well of course I don't like Euro Disney, it's in bloody France!" snapped England, his face coloring. "But at the very least, you still could have thought of me, even if you know I hate your blasted amusement parks! Even if you KNEW I would say no, you could have at least of had the decency to ring me up and annoy me about it the way you always do!"

America just looked at him. For a moment, something trembled beneath his blue eyes, but it disappeared almost immediately, and the nation sent a disapproving look to his old master, like a parent who has caught their child sneaking sweets.

"You're being very immature about this." Alfred turned around, refusing to make eye contact with the shorter nation, who now felt perhaps two inches tall. "If you wanted to come so badly you could have made time out of your own schedule to visit. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a presentation to set—"

**SMACK!**

England struck America across the face. The boy staggered. England raised his hand again, but it fell to his side when his psyche was almost immediately struck with humiliation and shame.

"You're a bloody git, you know that?" hissed England, bracing himself for the inevitable swing that would perhaps knock a few teeth out, dislocate his nose.

But America did nothing. He looked at the floor, a fresh pink handprint burning softly on his face. Then, he slowly walked into the meeting room without so much as a word.

And for whatever reason, that hurt more than anything else.

~*oOo*~

The meeting had ended. America had presented a flawless presentation on fighting poverty and famine in several third world countries. England had shuffled down in his seat and sulked for most of it, unwilling to say much of anything.

He was such a child. A petty, sulking child alone in a corner.

He knew it, and he loathed it. Almost as much as he loathed watching America leave the room with Russia's arm around his shoulder. He clutched his pen tightly as everyone left, imagining stabbing it through Russia's eye. He'd never put an arm around America's shoulder—America was typically the one who did that to England, despite his complaints—but now, the older country thought he wouldn't at all mind hearing America cheerily prattle on about nothing, his warm arm guiding a fussing England wherever he wanted to go. England's eyes flickered.

Once, he and Germany shared a very similar complaint; they were constantly being harangued by extremely childish, naïve countries who would call out for them at the drop of a hat. To this day, it wasn't exactly uncommon for Italy to call Germany crying after being bit by a cat or cutting his finger on a can, begging the irate nation to fly over and kiss his bandaged finger. England closed his eyes and sighed sadly.

He remembered the bizarre calls America would make out of the blue, the ones that had used to come so frequently just months ago….

_"England?" America had asked spritely after the older nation barked out a greeting. "Hey bro, how are you doing?"_

_"America, I'm really very busy right now, so you better hope that this is important—"_

_"Oh, you bet it is," insisted America. "You see, I—hey, who are you, how did you get into my house? Wait, w-what is that? Oh, please tell me that's not a **chainsaw**—" _

_England froze in his seat as he heard the unmistakable sound of blades whirring, purring. "America, what's going on? If this—" He immediately broke off as America started yelling. It sounded like things were breaking and thumping onto the ground. _

_"Oh MAN, IT TOTALLY IS! **AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA**! England, there's A MANIAC IN THE HOUSE!" England had stammered to his feet, clutching at the phone for dear life. _

_"What?!" he demanded sharply, his green eyes wide with worry. "America, what the **bloody** hell—"_

_"A CHAINSAW!" Alfred screamed. "A CHAINSAW! **GET AWAY FROM ME WITH THAT CHAINSAW**! Ow! Ow! Owowowowowowow! Oh, the pain, **the horrible pain**! Hey, wait, what are you doing with that, where are you going to put that, why—**OHMYGAWD, I NEED AN ADULT**!"_

_Then, the unmistakable sound of an explosion filled his ears before the line abruptly went dead. _

_~*oOo*~_

_He'd stormed through America's house just hours later, fists clumsily raised and umbrella hoisted threateningly; the airport wouldn't allow him to take any weapons with him on the arsenal. America had been seated comfortably on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, in perfect health. _

_"I knew that would get your attention!" Alfred had exclaimed merrily, seemingly oblivious to the fact that England was staring at him, thunderstruck. Something on the television screen exploded. "Tony doesn't wanna go with me to the premiere sequel of this because he says it'll freaking suck, but he doesn't know what he's missing!"_

England slowly shook his head. Dear, dear git. He'd almost completely lost it on America that day, but the nation had cried like a small child and pled that all he'd really wanted was to see England, especially considering that he'd been SO busy lately. That night, England had most grudgingly went to the stupid affair with America, hand in hand with the stupid, gleeful nation.

And after several very difficult months of social and economic turmoil, and a colossal amount of paperwork for England to deal with, America wound up kidnapping England and whisked him off to Hawaii. England gave the nation no end of grief for THAT one, but it _had_ been rather nice.

_I'm sorry. I sent you six letters saying so. What else do you want from me? Why are you hanging out with Russia?_ God, he sounded like a sad schoolgirl, even to himself! _Are you actually trying to punish me, you heartless git? _

He pinched the bridge of his nose and tilted his head back with a sigh. It was time for a drink.

~*oOo*~

**Like I said, pretty ridiculous. May or may not continue this.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey, y'all. ^_^ Just so you know, "football" in the vast majority of the world is our "soccer." Really hope you guys enjoy this little story, please read and review! I certainly wouldn't mind trying more UsUk if I get the time…but will try not to publish any new material until I finish most of the stories I already have up. No promises, though.**

**Michelangelo's David is completely nude. FYI. **

**Yes, I know I misnamed the cats. England being England probably wants his cat to be more Britishy. Don't kill me. ^_^ And yes, this story was extended-there will only be three chapters at most, though. I am adamant on that. Au revoir, my loves, please R&R!**

* * *

~*oOo*~

By the time he'd finally woken up stiff and aching on the bar's restroom floor, his shirt soaked in his own vomit and with a splitting headache to boot, thin rays of afternoon sunshine were streaming on his body from a nearby window.

Thankfully he hadn't missed his flight yet, so England stumbled home to lie in a stupor on his own bathroom floor. Coffee wouldn't help him break past the opaque fog still clouding his brain, so England generously spiked the hot beverage with plenty of rum, not caring that the combination tasted awful. He took a few hearty swigs of the mixture, staying close to the toilet in case his stomach decided to reject its contents again.

Bleary-eyed and exhausted, England pulled out his cell phone, only to find that he had four unread messages. Excited, he immediately scrolled to his inbox, only to visibly wilt with disappointment when he saw the messages were only from his irate prime minister, who wanted to know why the hell England hadn't emailed the lists he'd promised to finish.

The flaxen country leaned against the door and hugged his knees to his chest, disappointment resounding in him like an echo in a hollow cave. When the phone shrilly started to ring, England irritably switched the sound off—he'd make up some flimsy excuse later—and switched to his contacts, pulling up America's number and the picture that went beside it. Alfred was hugging an irate Arthur's shoulders, dressed up like a cowboy. That was last year's Halloween party….

Arthur smiled slightly and slid down onto his back, lifting an eyebrow when he saw his own dark scowl in the picture. Well, of course he was upset, considering America had _begged_ and _pleaded_ him to wear that stupid cow suit….and he'd actually been talked into wearing the blasted thing. _Anyone_ would be a little disgusted with themselves. France had mocked him, called him the most 'whipped' thing he'd ever seen. Arthur huffed in irritation. At least HE hadn't tried to come to the costume ball as Michelangelo's David…thank god he hadn't taken any pictures of THAT.

He flicked through his photos absentmindedly, slightly soothed when he came across the picture of him and Alfred wearing Hogwarts school uniforms together, Alfred's arm once again around Arthur's shoulders while the older nation browsed through a large book. He hadn't thought America would actually do it, but he'd agreed to, if England wore that awful animal costume. He was never going to live that one down, had felt like going into hiding shortly after France uploaded the rotten scenes, but America had just held his head up and laughed heartily at the whole thing, even when the pictures of him in those godawful and strangely adorable rabbit ears were posted.

Arthur chuckled humorlessly. That HAD been a strange New Year's Eve. Little embarrassed America. While it was classless, England thought it rather charming and freeing in its own way, not that'd he would actually tell Alfred that.

A hint of sadness appeared in his eyes, but England blinked it away, going through his online photo album.

There was America again, at that pie-eating competition he'd finished off almost singlehandedly, with a green-faced England looking away….America at the beach, making a sandcastle, looking as excited as a child….America taking his shirt off, looking startled as he looked into the camera, just having realized it was there…

_When the bloody hell did I take THAT picture?_

Coloring significantly, England immediately slammed his phone shut, his already parched throat prickling unpleasantly.

~*oOo*~

Later that evening, when Arthur was lying on his couch, still in sullied clothes and too tired to care, something leapt onto his stomach. He opened his eyes wearily to see a pair of blue eyes staring back at him, purring happily.

"Sod off, Biscuit," England muttered, though he started scratching the white feline behind the ears, feeling it nuzzle his fingers appreciatively. At least _someone_ liked him at the moment, though England was feeling fairly rotten seeking solace from a cat.

_Seeking solace for what_? He asked himself dully._ **I **didn't do anything wrong. It's America who's blowing this all out of proportion._

Biscuit wriggled his warm body under Arthur's arm and renewed his rumbling purr, tail flicking side to side as England started to stroke the ring of dark brown fur around Biscuit's neck. His fingers wandered to the little half-circles around his cat's eyes, and a vague smile appeared on the dispirited country's face.

Had it really been only two years ago?

_"C'mon, Artie, a pet'll do you good! Teach you responsibility."_

_England had been taking a sip of tea from a Styrofoam cup the shelter staff had offered him, only to spew it all over the tiled floor._

_"You git—teach ME responsibility?" he'd sputtered, flabbergasted and unnerved. "I—YOU—I don't even need to—you're not—you're such a—"_

_America had thrown his head back and laughed; England threw his cup at him. "Dude, can't you take a joke? I think one of these guys would do you good."_

_"Correction," England had snapped when America bent over to coo at one of the cats leaning against the bars to take a better look at them both. "YOU want a cat, you feel like it would teach YOU responsibility, do YOU good, so YOU drag me out of a conference telling me it's a matter of life and death—"_

_"But it **is**!" America had insisted, petting a cat awkwardly through the cage bars. "If some of these cats don't get adopted soon, they'll be taken to the BACK ROOM! We can't have that, can we?" America clasped his hands and gave England an imploring look; England had immediately rolled his eyes and looked away before America could pull out his secret weapon, the one probably deadlier than his atom bomb. _

_"—and of course, it turns out all you want is for me to help you pick out one of these beasts," England finished disapprovingly as America turned his attention back to the cats. "Just grab one that looks nice and we'll be off."_

_America shook his head in mock sadness. "Oh, Artie, you know it doesn't work like that! Besides," he added, grabbing a startled England's hand, "It isn't like they're dogs, which bark and tear around and need to be taken out a lot! Cats are good company when you need a lap buddy!"_

_England just gawked at him, feeling his ears burn as he pulled his hand away. "Blast it all, do you have **any** idea what that sounds like?"_

_America scoffed. "Whatever. Mattie said he got a cute little red cat named Maple which is the most adorable thing ever, so DUH I have to get a cat too!" he exclaimed, holding up a trembling fist. "And you as well!"_

_"Why should I?" England had sneered. "You want an unfortunate feline, pick one. There's no reason I have to be dragged into this."_

_"C'mon, Artie, do it for me!" America begged, clasping his hands together and England had to look away again, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Do it for the poor, poor kitty who'll have to meet Mr. Needle if you don't have a heart. Cats can take care of themselves, and you're probably real lonely coming home to an empty house every day—"_

_Infuriated and humiliated, England tried to sputter out a negative, but America went on:_

_"—and you have a housekeeper, so she can look after it when you're away, so please, Artie, c'mon, just LOOK at one, pretty please, pretty please, pretty please?"_

_Had America been this trying when he was a child, running around the yard with his rabbit friends?_

_At last, worn down by the incessant whining and lip quivering, England agreed to look, but no more. The two wandered up and down the many rows of cats, America stopping every now and again to peer into a unit or to call out a greeting. England just glanced at the cages, his eyes wandering uneasily over the felines, who didn't seem to be taking a shine to him. When he passed by, they tended to curl up into balls. Some actually hissed. Well, that didn't surprise England in the slightest; he and animals tended to go together like oil and water. Unfortunately, it was the same case with children, which was why no one went trick-or-treating at his house on Halloween night. _

America had been a very rare exception, _he had mused to himself as he finished walking down the third row, already ready to call it quits._ _While being initially afraid of England, he'd certainly warmed up to him once England had already resigned himself to having lost his bid for America and cried. That hadn't been one of his brightest moments to be certain, but it had felt_ **good** _rocking America to sleep, having a trusting hand slide into his own and pull him to flowery glades….felt the strange and almost frightening earnesty of unconditional love when he'd tended to America when he was sick…_

_An incessant meowing caught his attention, and England had glanced behind himself in surprise. A large white cat was pushing at the cage at his paws, his large eyes fixed on England. The green-eyed nation found himself wandering back to the cage, cautiously extending out a finger, which the cat immediately began to nuzzle, purring like a motorboat. He rubbed his chin against the finger for more, and soon England was kneeling next to the cage, scratching the happy cat's back as well as he could through bars. The cat started playing with his own bushy tail, the half-moon markings under his large blue eyes reminding him of spectacles._

_"Aww, see, you're already besties with him!"_

_England whipped his hand away, and the cat mewed contently. Blushing, Arthur had looked up at Alfred, who was clutching a large orange and white Scottish fold, which was glaring at Arthur suspiciously with sharp green eyes. Arthur found himself scowling back, especially when the cat buried its face in Alfred's elbow. "What's that little monster?"_

_"My newfound partner in crime," Alfred sang, giving the cat a friendly poke in the back of his neck. It turned its head up to give Alfred an injured look before hiding his face again, tiny tail wagging slightly. "Isn't he just the cutest thing? He reminds me of you."_

_"….what."_

_"Aw, c'mon, he was grooming himself all fussy-like when I came to visit him and he gave me a look that said all too clearly 'well, what the hell are **you** looking at?' So I knew I had to have him. He's actually quite cuddly—" The cat started scratching at Alfred's shirt. "—but for some reason or another, the management says he's been here for some time. Poor little guy." He kissed the cat's head, and it let out a sound that seemed to Arthur like a strange cross between a yowl and a purr. "I'm gonna call him Hero. What're you namin' yours?"_

~*oOo*~

Biscuit was quiet next to him when he called once, twice, only to get Alfred's _secretary _on both attempts. Since when did Alfred have a bloody secretary? The thought was unnerving. After the woman promised Mr. Jones would call 'at his greatest convenience,' Arthur irritably hung up the phone, burying his face in his hands.

_You're such a child. _

He tried emailing an angry letter, thought about it and sent an apologetic one, and in the morning, when he had yet to receive a reply, sent another angry one. A knot of dread conjoined with something like despair had begun to tighten in his stomach.

_Why won't you answer me?_

He wrote a letter and waited for two weeks; still no response ever came. The morning papers were now littered with articles of Russia and America's growing relations, and England read them all over carefully, never failing to draw hideous things on any picture of Russia, sometimes so viciously that he tore up Russia's smiling face.

He started calling the secretary on a daily basis, and while she assured him that _yes, America truly is very busy right now, and he'll be back with you just as soon as the workflow slows_, he never got any answer. England then began leaving furious messages for America that were sometimes clustered with the _damn emotion_ that gathered at his throat, choking him when he was doing his best to shout at the woman.

_I'm sorry._

The mail came and went, but the postman never brought any letters to England from America.

_What do you want me to do?_

The phone calls were being ignored._  
_

_I'm so sorry. _

He felt helpless. He felt helpless and he felt angry and he felt _lost._

* * *

The fall came and the rain wouldn't go away. And neither would England's foul mood. His dreams were becoming stranger and stranger at night, until he came to the point where he didn't fall asleep so much as he passed out. He very often woke up groggy and with a bad taste in his mouth, with Biscuit mewing dolefully nearby.

He got through his work, as was expected of him, went to the events he was asked to attend and called the people he was meant to, but there was very little joy involved in the little activities he used to take pleasure in, from reading to gardening to a cup of tea on his porch with Biscuit. Even talking with his delightful friends no one else could seem to see had lost its charm; he was curt on the phone, and felt like seeing no one. America never returned his calls. His day planner remained painfully blank, his duties aside. It was painful remembering _just how busy_ America normally kept him, so he turned to the bottle for relief, or at least for a temporary numbness.

Biscuit seemed to have lost his appetite, which was strange because it was normally voracious. Instead of running gleefully to the kitchen whenever he heard the can opener, he merely trudged to his dish an hour or so after his lunchtime passed. Biscuit might sniff at the contents, take a nibble or two, but even after England offered him his (very well overdone) bacon, Biscuit just remained curled up in a ball, dispirited and melancholy. England tried to get him to play once or twice for Biscuit's sake, but the cat wouldn't respond, so what was the point? He wondered if Biscuit missed Hero—England sometimes brought the cat with him when he went to visit America for extended periods of time.

England remembered once upon a time when America had sent him letter after childish letter begging England to return to the colonies for a visit, and England had eventually stopped answering. What point was there? In his old letters, England would assure America that he would be back in a matter of months, when what he really meant was a matter of years. There was no point in disillusioning a child who was probably too busy to care what England did or where he was, so he'd simply ignored the problem in the hopes of it going away.

And one day, he'd returned, only to see America all grown up. Gone was the child who had run to the docks to meet him, gone was the boy who loved wooden soldiers and came crying to England after having awful nightmares. There had been a tall and handsome lad slightly surprised to see England in his house, but mostly nonchalant. Indifferent.

Strange dreams started to plague his subconscious. He might be looking on little America picking daisies in a meadow and try to run towards him, only to get farther and farther away as America started shooting up like a bean pole, unattainable, beautiful, ignorant to England's calling.

And suddenly, there was Russia at his side, his hand on America's shoulders, guiding him away to a place England couldn't reach and leaving him alone, unwanted, in a glassy and empty universe.

_Russia._ The very name made England's insides contort like angry snakes, and he longed to sock the Slavic nation until he was as purple as his eyes, with a long, broken nose. England hated him with the gusto he normally reserved for France, which both surprised and scared him.

HE was likely the one leading America away from him, because of his own old grudges with England. Probably encouraging America to make England so tremendously guilty that he wanted to tear out his hair. God, but America had forgiven him for LESS than this!

One late Autumn morning, after reading about another stupid article with America and Russia holding hands and taking a good look at himself in the mirror, England decided that he had had enough. He called America once, twice, three times—evidently, the woman was now screening his calls—and then tried another route. Scooping up a dispirited Biscuit in his arms, England immediately called Japan.

"_Moshi moshi_," he heard the Asian nation greet politely.

"Hello, Japan? It's England," said the country wearily, dragging a hand through his yellow hair. God, he needed another drink.

"_Konnichiwa, England-san. How are_—"

"You can skip the formalities," snapped England. He didn't mean to be so short, but he was desperate.

"I want to ask you how America is doing."

Kiku's voice came back somewhat crossly:

_"If you want to know how America-san is, I suggest you call him…"_

"I can't. His wretched secretary keeps picking up and promising me that she'll have him return my calls, but I've heard nothing!" Arthur raved, getting carried off in the rush of his anger and resentment. "Nothing for over two months and he won't pick up his cell! I think he's gotten a new number and he won't even tell me what it is!"

Japan was silent. After a few deep breaths, England collected himself, complexion pink with embarrassment. Well, at least he'd humiliated himself over the phone rather than in person… "And I get nothing from him via post or email, so please Japan—you know America better than anyone else." He tried to keep the envy out of his plea. "Do you know if there's something wrong with him?"

_"I do not know. He does seem much more formal than usual." Japan_ paused, and then added, _"My boss approved wholeheartedly. I do as well."_

England rolled his eyes. Perhaps calling the person who agreed with America regardless of the circumstances had not been the hottest idea he'd had in a while. "Please, Japan, you're his close friend. Tell me what YOU think."

A shuddering sigh. Japan seldom liked to share his personal opinions.

"I think…he is much quieter and more subdued than normal," said Japan hesitantly, stalling for time. England longed to wrap the phone cord around Japan's neck and strangle him. What did he expect from a country that stressed group harmony? _"If America-san is happy, I am happy also. Oh, and he and his boss came over to talk with mine for a little while today…he certainly seemed quite down."_

"You mean America?" asked England anxiously.

_"What? Oh no, I meant America boss. He bowed to China's boss and now China's country and his own country are laughing at him. He was very embarrassed, but I guess that is what you get for being polite,_ _iie_?"

"But how was America?" Arthur pressed.

_"He did not have nearly so much to say as he normally does. I did think it was strange that he did not immediately beg to play some of my video games or demand we head to Harajuku…" _he mused, and Britain's hopeful heart started to sink. _"America-san and I just…just talked for awhile. Quite a change. He seemed very tired and preferred to listen."_

America normally talked so much and so loudly that it was a miracle anyone managed to get a word in. So it wasn't just for England America had been determined to convince. He wasn't certain if that conclusion made him feel better or worse. "Anything else? I mean, anything else out of the ordinary for Alfred?"

_"Well, we often get food together when one of us comes to visit, and he orders five or six helpings of large fries in my country because the servings are not big enough for him,"_ commented Japan dryly, and England chuckled in spite of himself. "_But this time he ordered just one and picked at it for awhile. Then, he fed the contents of his lunch to a few stray birds_."

"You're lying." Perhaps the end of all things was truly coming this year.

"_Iie. He said that he was on a diet and that he didn't want to give his personal trainer any more reason to run him into the ground_."

"Is this a prank call?" asked England weakly.

"Surely there can't be….anything else?"

"_Well, normally by this time of year, he is already reminding me of annoying Christmas spectacle with ugly food he means to have in winter and blackmailing me if I express any desire not to attend_." England absently nodded in sympathy. He had received a number of America's warm, bubbly, and threatening party invitations over the years. "_But I do not think America even means to take off Christmas this year. His boss and family are going to Hawaii, but America will stay in DC and take care of business_."

"What?" Arthur exclaimed in astonishment. "You mean he means to spend Christmas all by himself? Working?"

_"Hai."_ Japan's voice was unemotional to England's numb ears. Then again, Christmas was not so dominant in Japan as it was in Europe and the States.

But _still..._

_America alone, on his favorite day of the year?  
_

~*oOo*~

_Deer England, _

_Merri Krismus Day! I miss you and I love you. There is a lot of snow on the grond. Is there a lot of snow in your hoowse. I want you to be heer. I asked Fathr Krismus to breeng you but he did not. I am sad but glad becoz they say you will be heer in Spring. The bunnys will be out and it will be gren and you will be heer and I will be so hapi. I love you England, so come here reel soon. Merri Krismus and Happee New Yeer._

England was afraid to touch the centuries old parchment—it looked like it could fall apart any second—but his hand still brushed against the faded, clumsy script, smiling sadly.

_I want to see you, too. _

What if he tried to storm up America's drive and slammed his knuckles on the door? What if America sent him away, didn't want to see him?

_Well, then I'll make him see me._ But his heart sank. Alfred was one of the most easy-going people Arthur had ever met, but he was still incredibly stubborn. What if this whole ridiculous affair spanned months?

Years? Arthur bit his lip. The idea of not talking to Alfred for years or not spending his Christmasses with him was unbearable. He wanted to bake cookies with the nation while Alfred spread metric tons of icing onto unsuspecting gingerbread men, tarted them up like whores….he wanted to go walking with America and listen to the dear idiot babble on about the snow and about gifts and about the latest scandal at one of his ridiculously ludicrous Christmas parties. Hell, he would be willing to get dragged around a mall, staggering under the amount of packages America would buy for friends and acquaintances and sorry-looking people on the streets if it meant that he could be pressed up against America's warm side on a quiet Christmas Eve, staring into the fire.

Warmth rushed into England's face. How nice would it be, in one of America's tacky sweaters, to be dragging a hand through America's hair as Alfred lay in his lap, smiling sleepily, eyes twinkling? What would it be like to notice hot chocolate still on Alfred's lips, and to bend over him, Alfred's breath tantalizing mixing with his own as he pressed their mouths together and—

England's coffee cup fell and smashed to the ground, its contents spilling everywhere. Biscuit leapt out of his arms with a startled yowl, and England blinked, out of dismay as much as it was out of disorientation.

What did he do?

England swallowed heavily, wringing his hands.

What did he do? Blast it all, Alfred was his little brother, like his _son_! England swallowed, growing incredibly hot under his shabby clothes. Well, he certainly didn't need to confide in his superiors about such a thing—they would only commit him, and he wouldn't blame them. Hell, if he had any decency, he would commit himself! England let out a strangled moan and buried his face in his hands, coffee still dripping down from the table onto the growing puddle below.

He wanted to hold Alfred. He wanted those blue eyes fixated on him, and only him—he'd wanted that for years—but he wanted Alfred in his arms again, but in_ such_ a different context than what he wanted when Alfred was still just a child!

But it was _sick_. Alfred was a _boy_. And he'd raised the boy as his ward. Had he harbored these sick thoughts for years now, lurking in the darkness when Alfred was still running to his room, stricken with night terrors?

England let out a strangled sob and fell to his knees, disregarding Biscuit's anxious meowing.

What did he do? Who could he possibly ask about this? A psychologist? England snorted at the thought. Right. Like any human idiot could comprehend the thoughts and feelings of a country, an ancient country which had seen and done so much in a thousand years!

_A thousand years…._

_Am I really that old?_ England let out a strangled giggle. Even if Alfred was a fellow country, he was still seven hundred years younger than he was! Still untouchable, still in a gilded cage. England would have to suck it up and let it go, the way he left every lover go, as he had no other choice to. Either they would wither away in what felt like days or they would just…disappear. Flutter away.

But the idea of Russia getting America into his filthy hands made England's blood boil. No. Russia was savage, childishly sadistic, a schemer.

No. England started taking deeper breaths, slowly beginning to calm down.

The love was brotherly. Perhaps strange images were blooming in his head; what of it? He was lonely. He was lonely and he hadn't gotten laid in a long time. He would find America, find some random girl or bloke and get laid, and everything would be normal.

Just as soon as he could get an assurance from America that his relationship with Russia was strictly businesslike. Russia was a dangerous child on the playground, and England wouldn't let him go near America, clueless, kind, gullible America. He was not a pervert. He was simply feeling his old big brother role, yes, he was fine. England inhaled deeply, and slowly exhaled, relaxing.

What he was feeling was natural, he supposed. Natural he should feel protective, natural he should want to make sure America was safe, natural that he should want to tie Russia up and toss him into the sea.

Well, that particular feeling might not be so brotherly. England blinked.

_I suppose this is as good a time as any to take time out of the office for working on international relations…._

More uncertain than ever, England picked up the phone.

* * *

Italy had been waiting for him at the airport, his brown eyes sparkling.

"Ciao, England!" he exclaimed merrily, leaping forward to kiss the disgruntled nation on the cheeks. "Is very nice to see you!"

England grumbled, wiped at his burning face and looked away. Italy's cheeriness was hardly deterred. "Would you like to get a bite to eat? I'm starving and haven't eaten since forever ago!"

"You mean since this morning?" asked England grumpily, squinting angrily into the sunlight streaming down into the Leonardo DaVinci Airport. "God, that light's bloody bright. Should have just stopped at two shots on the flight, I suppose…"

Italy blinked, taking in England's lackluster appearance. His hair was disheveled, his normally neat tie loose, his jacket wrinkled, and he wore two mismatching socks. Had England been beaming, Italy would have assumed that he were in love or something, but he reeked no joy.

"You seem very sad, _si_? That is no good," said Italy consolingly, patting England's green tweed jacket, not seeming to mind when England irritably glanced away again. "I tell you what, we will fill your sadness hole with good food, good wine, and then a good game of football!"

"Isn't that your way of handling everything?" England asked, smiling grudgingly.

"Ve. It works," Italy agreed happily, pulling England down a flight of stairs to the baggage collect. "If that does not fix something, then problem too large for me and I ask Germany how to serve it. Anyhoo, we must hurry!" he chimed. "I got tickets for a game that starts this afternoon!"

~*oOo*~

The stadium was packed; much to England's dismay, they'd had to push and shove their way through and several people had cut ahead of the two in line. But at last they'd found their seats, and England felt his mouth wandering as the audience stared at the happenings below as if they were all witnessing the birth of their firstborn.

"Italy, what do you think of the…." England was at a loss for a moment. "The um, new America?"

"I don't know," said the chestnut-haired country indifferently. "I suppose he seems more…put-together and such, which Ludwig thinks is very good! Germany says I should follow his example." Italy beamed and slowly shook his head. "Ludwig makes some very funny jokes sometimes, ve?"

England snorted. Italy thoughtfully turned his attention back to the game and began to muse aloud:

"I wonder what made America change so suddenly. Is very strange. I guess washing cream pie out of his hair had something to do with it…."

England swallowed and looked at his hands. Suddenly, it felt like his stomach was home to a host of frantic butterflies flapping around inside of him.

"W-well, I might have had something to do with it…."

"Fuck you!" exclaimed Italy, jumping to his feet. England's eyes almost popped out of his head.

"E-excuse me?!"

But Italy's angry brown eyes weren't focused on England; in fact, it seemed like he had forgotten him entirely.

"_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_…..oh, Limbardi, you donkey-brained, son of a whore, how could you let that one through, you are a disgrace, big disgrace, you will never be half the man your mother is, you cunt, why don't you get out of the way and let Mosca….yes, yes, oh, wonderful, closer, closer, you're nearly there, beautiful—aaaaaaagggghhhhh! FUCK YOU, MOSCA! **_FUCK YOU ALL!"_**

Italy turned to the frozen man beside him with a pleasant smile.

"Now, Mister England, what were you saying? Oh, wait…." He turned back to the field and proceeded to cuss out an opposing player's mother when he successfully kicked the ball into the goal. "Please go on."

~*oOo*~

Italy's team lost. While the country had seemed quite depressed about it when the two trudged out of the stadium _(_And England thought HE felt down; _"Stiff upper lip, old chap, no one died, for goodness' sakes"), _by the time they had headed onto the street again, he seemed in quite good spirits, especially when he suggested that the two go out somewhere. England thought he'd meant a bar, but instead Italy had led the confused country to an out-of-the-way little bakery, and had ordered two large desserts for the two of them.

Italy had found them a place to sit by a canal, and England watched the water slurp and sway against the centuries' old stone. How long would it stay so, an obstinate city on the sea?

"I never knew you could ever be so intense…about anything." England tentatively sniffed the pastry Italy had given him, trying to look bored instead of intrigued. It smelled absolutely mouthwatering.

"Oh, only ever about football," said Italy dismissively, waving his hand casually as he popped the sweet into his mouth and munched contently. "You should see Romano…he is very…_enthusiastic_ fan!" Italy swallowed, wiped his mouth, and smiled appreciatively. "As in he will run onto field and start beating up people before guards drag him away! But at end of game I am usually happy, ve? Because at end of game I remember is just a game and I can go out to bakery and eat doughnuts whether team wins or loses. Nothing like America's donuts on which he normally runs on," he added hastily, making a disgusted face. "Good ones…."

"Still, it's…rather a surprise, coming from you." England turned his sweet over in his hands, and he wondered aloud, "It makes me wonder what other sides of countries I'm missing…"

"Oh, many countries have lots of different faces," Italy responded, squatting down on the cobblestone curb beside England. "Some you see often, others not so much, others hardly ever. Japan makes a funny one whenever we get into a car together…almost as if he's afraid for his life…"

"Yes well, the one America's wearing now is all business, all for 'the good of the nation,' and all that rot. Don't get me wrong, I think it's marvelous," England said quickly, slowly biting into the powder-covered, chocolate-filled pastry, his eyes rolling backward. God, that tasted wonderful! "But he doesn't have time for me anymo—time for any leisure with anyone, I mean! He's accepting more and more responsibility than he really needs to, and I think it's slowly starting to crush him."

Italy wrinkled his nose. "Too much work and no play makes America a dull boy. I think you should go to him and take him plenty of pasta."

Arthur smiled wistfully.

"I don't think this a problem pasta can fix."

Feliciano looked about as thunderstruck as if a horse had just kicked him in the head.

"That sounds very serious!" exclaimed Italy, wringing his now sweet-smeared hands together. "Then you must go to him with a dozen red roses, kiss up, exclaim _'Te amo!'_ and make fast, sweet love to him—"

England abruptly spewed out the bit of pastry he'd been chewing to the ground, coughing furiously. _"W-what—"_

"—and then you must make good breakfast in morning. But that might be hard for Signor England, so I suggest you take him out to nice and therefore expensive restaurant!"

England glowered at him.

"You're bloody kidding me." He growled. "You have got to be bloody killing me, you little wanker," Italy looked quite taken aback.

"Ve? Why would I kid about something like that? If we all solved world problems like such, I think world would be much nicer, happier place! What I just said is what I do when Ludwig and I have argument and I want there to be happiness again. Or when I think he works too hard," he added, putting his chin in his hands and sighing lightly, wistfully. "He does always work very, very hard."

England glanced at him and turned his gaze to the water front, the wind playing lightly at his hair. "So…it's…it's true then?" He'd heard a good number of rumors. "You and Ludwig are…ah….are an…item?"

"Ve," murmured Italy happily, rocking back and forth, his light brown eyes glowing in the late afternoon sunlight. "Ludwig makes me happy even when he is yelling, which he does a lot, like an Italian Mama! Is nice, one of very many things I love about him." Arthur's heart sank.

"But what if…what if your relationship should happen to take a turn for the worse?" asked England in such a low voice that Italy had to ask him to repeat his question. "You would have to spend…Lord knows how many years….looking at him in the face, knowing it had gone wrong….and because of your duties of nations, you would never be able to just….slip away, slip away and never see each other again. You would have to see each other several times a year, relive the whole miserable—"

"Love is pain, Signor England," said Italy with a sad, kind smile. "That is thrill of it. Would be no fun if it was just pretty person and sweet amor, ve? The risk is like gambling, lots and lots of fun, but can ruin you if you throw everything in and lose!" He threw his head back and admired a pair of larks circling overhead.

"Austria and Hungary knew what dice they were throwing in when their turn came around. I think they have balls!"

"And look what happened to them," snapped England bitterly. "Divorced. They can probably hardly stand to look at each other, let alone be in the same room—"

"Not true, signor," said Italy with a surprising firmness. "Their bosses decided it would be good idea for them to marry. It did not last. These things happen. Does not mean that Hungary still does not come to Mr. Austria's house when he is sad and has stayed inside for too long. Does not mean that Mr. Austria does not send her flowers and yummy things to eat on her birthday! Does not mean that I can't hear them going at it when we are all staying in same hotel and my room is next to theirs and—"

"I get the picture," snapped England, embarrassed once again. Italy shrugged.

"They must obey the voices of their people. Does not mean they do not still love."

"What makes people fall in love to begin with? Bloody hell, whatever would remain of your relationship with Germany if you two lived together and—"

"Oh, is good we don't live together. I would drive Germany insane," said Italy matter-of-factly. "I miss him when he is gone, and I believe he misses me…it makes our visits together very happy! Ludwig is very often bitterness, which makes sweetness of our relationship so nice! Is fun to discover more and more sweetness within sourness, and in Ludwig, I find a lot! Soon you love even the not-so-fun parts of amor, even if they hurt like crazy, even if they are ugly and unbearable."

_How can anyone drive themselves to love quite so much as to love ugliness? _

"I love love. Love is bitterness, like Ludwig, ergo I love Ludwig. Love is chocolate so bitter you almost don't want to eat it. But is chocolate, ve? You want to eat it because it is so good even with bitter taste when you first bite into it! Is sweet and toxic and dangerous, like Mr. England's sweets!"

"Hey!" England blustered. "Excuse me, but I'll have you well know that I'm rather proud of my confectionary—"

Italy ran down the street, laughing.

* * *

**Ah, Italy's got an answer for everything, huh? :) Yeah, England's going round asking people for countries on love. *Holds up bullet proof glass* He's got some tough questions to ask himself, if Russia doesn't beat him to the punch! ;) See you guys soon!**


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